An Ode to the Ice Cream Truck

No tune conjures images of summer
quite like the tune of an ice cream truck
rambling through the neighborhood
beckoning sugar-addled children
to come and get their fix.

No tune conjures up images of self-combustion
quite like the tune of an ice cream truck
idling outside my house for – an – hour
beckoning me to contemplate murder
mass frozen-deserticide.

la di da da dum, la di da da dum



Let me tell you a story.

This morning, I woke up on what I thought was the correct side of the bed. Boy was I wrong.

It all started out so lovely. The sun was streaming through the french doors leading onto my back deck. I had just cleaned the house yesterday, so the dog hair and dust motes were limited, and the living room smelled of peaches from my new scentsy. All together a pleasant way to wake up as I wandered through the house getting ready for work.

I got dressed, and I noticed my hair still looked fabulous from when I styled it for a concert last night. One less thing! I glanced at the clock and realized I might be on time to work for once. I smoothed some lipgloss over my lips, dabbed on some mascara and made my way to the kitchen to make my morning cup of Joe. Once my coffee was ready, I poured in my delicious creamer, screwed on the lid, and went to kiss my husband goodbye.

When I came back to the kitchen, I grabbed the travel mug and —-

It’s too painful.

It spilled. EVERYWHERE. The lid was not screwed on as I had assumed. The mug flipped over, and delicious creamed coffee went all over my freshly cleaned counters, under every appliance, down the side of the oven, pooling under the crevices onto the floor.

Ordinarily, this event would have frustrated most folks. But it’s just coffee, right? It can be cleaned up. It’s not devastating. Most people would sigh, say, “Oh, man!” and clean it up.

Me? I was livid.

Not just “I’m disproportionately angry about this” livid. More like “I’m so angry about this I’m going to holler at the top of my lungs for the whole neighborhood to hear about this injustice and then forcefully throw the mug into the sink, splattering even more coffee on the other side of the previously clean kitchen, then rip down the paper towels, all the while yelling and cursing like a sailor and stomping around like a maniac, waking up my household and sending my husband rushing into the kitchen to see what the hell is going on” kind of livid.

I may have overreacted.

It was one of those moments where my true self was so mad it wouldn’t even let my false self try to calm her down. I picture my true self sucker punching my false self and knocking her out and continuing the tantrum from zero to mach 30 in under half a second. I was completely out of control for approximately 12 seconds before my husband was able to look me in the eye and laugh at me as I was so close to tears, thus causing me to laugh at myself for being completely ridiculous. Those 12 seconds were completely terrifying, and yet oddly liberating.

My voice is hoarse now from screaming so loud about spilled coffee on an otherwise perfect morning.

I don’t know where that anger came from.

I don’t really care.


Search for Silence

I search for silence.

Where the hell is it?

It’s definitely not out here,

in the open outdoor space

of the courtyard

in the shadow of Tall Buildings.

For here I hear such noise!

The whir of whatever it is

that keeps an urban hospital going

(such power required).

And that woman yelling at the deaf man

in his open hospital gown


Well they were, ma’am. They certainly were.

Where is the silence I crave?

I search within

that old inner space

my dusty attic dwelling

where I go to be alone

and quiet

with nothing

but the noise of sunshine

and dust motes

swirling in the symphony.

Grateful, Day Whatever

I don’t know what day of gratefulness this is because I forgot I was doing this.

1) Sunshine. But the spring kind of sunshine, not the tortuous Texas-in-August sunshine. I like it when it is warm but doesn’t remind me that the ozone layer is a doily and I’m ten seconds away from bursting into flames.

2) Indoor plumbing. I suffer from a small bladder, requiring I get up on average 25 times during the night to blindly navigate my way through the dark cavern of my hallway to the bathroom. Glad that trek is not half a mile out into the woods.

3) Movies with strong female leads. I saw Insurgent¬†Friday night and, while I was not a huge fan of the gagging sobs of Shailene Woodley, her “I can kick anyone’s ass” vibe was pretty on point.

Sheesh. Rereading those things makes me realize I’m sort of a pretentious privileged piece of something. I don’t have to spend 12 hours a day in that grueling sunshine picking produce for someone else’s table. I don’t have to urinate in public streets because no one will let me use their restroom. And I can afford a $15 3D movie (every now and then). Lord, in your mercy. We need some help down here.

A New Old Song

A bird serenades the yard. The sound flies in through the window and settles in my stirring spirit where I sit silently, heart longing for something it cannot name.

Spring is here.

My soul is sparked by the sounds of singing spring: lawnmowers grumbling and sputtering back to life after their long winter naps; lazy dogs yawning where they lounge languidly on the deck (even the taunting squirrels do not rouse them); the breeze carrying the melody of birthing smells, of dirt and buds and new grass. The song calls me out of my dusty house and into the greening world.

Memories flood my mind as my skin soaks in sunlight. Oh sun, sun, smiling sun! I ache for the warmth of a day at the river, toddlers waddling and picnics unpacked. For trips to the zoo where the monkeys holler and Dad makes the lion roar. For cookouts and family and evenings spent stargazing. For the engulfing fragrance of flowers and gardens floating on the air as we walk through the wide open world. For frisbee and books and blankets in sunshined parks.

It’s funny how the season of newness makes me feel old with life well-lived and loved.